


I Just Want Some Company

by sugandt



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 13:49:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12411507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugandt/pseuds/sugandt
Summary: Self indulgent cause I have a little crush on Sam Drake... but what's new?





	I Just Want Some Company

**Author's Note:**

> i'm 18 and a virgin so don't expect much

Company comes to Sam Drake in the form of a woman, of many women, of multitudes of names and colours and tastes and shapes. He no longer has a preference, as long as she's warm and soft with curves in all the right places-- just the way he likes. The way he's always liked. Samuel enjoys the feeling of sleeping in a real bed, with sheets and blankets that have thread counts of three hundred or more, but nothing can compare to the bodies that sleep beside him. One body, two bodies, three, Samuel has lost count by now. Not even the glowing orange of his cigarette lighter could reveal the faces of all the women he has slept with since stepping out of prison.

Samuel says his hair is starting to turn gray, wirelike, almost, and the crows feet by his eyes appear to be more prominent, if the crows are stretching out their toes, from deep within his skin. To you, the physical expressions of his aging is attractive, enticing. The way he embraces age with grace, with acceptance, with finesse. He compares himself to an alcoholic drink that only gets better with time. In fact, you think that his cockiness would normally be a turn-off, but what he lacks in modesty, he makes up for in skill.

Beneath your lips, your plush and pink lips, his skin is leathery, his jaw prominent and utterly kissable. His smirk, you can feel it against your cheek and your body reacts before your brain, pressing your chest flush against his. Trapped, he's caged you between himself and the wall. Animalistic. Heat crawls up your neck to your cheeks, blossoms at the small of your back when his free hands decides to snake up your shirt. Calloused skin, fingers, hot against your back, he plays your vertebrae one by one, teasing, the maestro of your flesh and bones. Confident, he's experienced, but you're determined to not let your legs become too weak; Samuel Drake will not break your knees clean off.

Tonight, you are his company, and he is yours.

It's almost embarrassing how easily he unravels you. Like you're a poorly tied bow comprised of thin ribbon; one pull is all it takes to undo the knot. Pliantly, your thighs part for his waiting hand to curl around and pull you closer, bare and exposed skin against weathered denim. Denim, Sam's denim that has the subtle stench of cigarette smoke worked and threaded into fibers. When he speaks to you, it's within a plume of smoke that blossoms from between his lips and tickles the back of your neck. Fabric scratches your skin where the back of your bra should be clasped together, and it takes you a moment to realize, between Sam's fingertips that are massaging the tender inside of your thigh and his breath by your ear, that he's managed to undo the clasp with one hand.

Dry, your mouth is dry and tongue heavy. Samuel knows exactly what he is doing, his intentions are to play you like you are composed of black and ivory keys, and he is following through perfectly, akin to a conductor of an orchestra. Samuel helps you slip from your clothing, discarding it upon the hardwood floor beside his weathered shoes. Polluted streetlights from the sidewalk below and the light from the waning moon streams in through the window, displaying yourself to him.

"God," he says, mainly to himself, now as if he is an artist musing over his newest work, a marble sculpture. Impatiently, you give his hair, graying at the temples, a slight tug. A silent indication to say please, Samuel, please.

Primal by nature, Sam refuses to waste any more time, his lips leaving a messy trail down to your stomach, between your chest, to the bones of your hips, where he cannot help but sink his teeth into the flesh there. Does he do this to all of the girls he takes home? Or are you special, intoxicating, in a way you can only dream of being? Perhaps Sam is an animalistic sort of man when it comes to the bedroom. The thought crosses your mind, momentarily, before Samuel tucks his knees beneath him, and, in the dim light, pulls his shirt over his head. His fourth tattoo, you know, is within sight. An hourglass, just below the base of his neck. Easy to hide.

You'd be lying to yourself if you said you only stared. Salivate, is closer, drooled over his lean body and biceps that display the muscle you know he works hard for, and glistening eyes that look up at you from his position on the floor. Now you are the one feeling primal, a predator ready to pounce upon its prey. He smirks again, this time with his temple resting on your thigh. Overwhelmed, your gaze drops away from his, but your hips deny your mind, rolling forth, rutting against nothing but air. Sam wants you to beg, get down on your knees and clean his shoes with only your spit and tongue, but the most he manages to get out of you is a whimper and another pull of his hair. Pulling him closer. Please.

Sam takes his time, watching you writhe beneath his subtle touch, the languid movement of your body. You are the rip tide, pulling him closer and closer, until you feel his thumbs hook around the band of your panties. Navy blue, if you remember properly, lacy where it counts, in his favourite style. You remember that from last time. What's wrong with desiring to impress an older man?

And then his lips, his tongue, gentle at first, press against the flesh of your inner thigh, hand sliding back up your leg after discarding your panties somewhere on the floor. But he moves upwards, away from where you need him most, back up along your ribs, lips leaving kisses in their wake. Trails up your neck, along your jaw, to your own lips, where he kisses you slowly, messily. You pull yourself forth, you can't get close enough to him, the back of his neck is the only thing keeping you upright.

"Sam," you say his name like a prayer, "Sam, I need it."

"What do you need?" He asks, teasing again, making you beg again, he knows what you want. Need.

"You," you make small sound of pleasure as his hand, fingers, find their way between your legs.

All you ever need is him.

"I'm right here, baby, I'm right here."

 


End file.
